


'Til It's Over

by tersa (alix)



Series: Dragon Age:Lillian [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, F/M, Plot What Plot, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-17
Updated: 2011-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-26 05:07:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alix/pseuds/tersa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lillian Tabris supported Alistair as the new King of Ferelden, never dreaming that he would end his relationship with her as a result.</p><p>Angry, hurt, she exacts a certain amount of revenge on him to end things on her terms, not his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Til It's Over

No one bothered me as I ghosted through the camp. The hem of my cloak swirled around my knees as I picked my way silently through the crushed grass on bare feet towards the central tent.

Two armored guards stood at rest on either side of the clear area around it, Arl Eamon’s men. I knew both of them well. The one closest to where I was, Ser Donall, frowned as I neared, more puzzled than disapproving, and put a hand up. “His Majesty requested that no one bother him tonight, Grey Warden.”

I gave him a smile, drawing on all the persuasive skills I’d been forced to hone the past weeks to pull the peoples of Ferelden together for the upcoming battle, and ignored the dryness of my mouth and pounding of my heart. “And no one should. But, come, Ser Donall, it is I. Fellow Grey Warden and the leader of his armies. Do you truly think I am ‘no one’?”

Confusion flittered through his expression. His gaze took me in: my hair pulled back into an untidy knot secured by a stick rather than its customary smooth bun, the old wool cloak pulled close about me, the lack of boots on my feet or weapons on my back. I was not wholly unarmed—the hairstick, a gift from Zevran, concealed a slender stiletto quite capable of puncturing tender parts—but it was so out of his experience with me, I could tell he didn’t quite know what to make of it.

As I’d counted on, he erred on the side of caution—at least from one perspective. “Alright, Grey Warden. But please tell the king it was by your order that I allowed you to pass, if he disagrees, and be knowing that I will not allow it a second time if he does.”

“Understood, ser” I murmured with a slight dip of my chin. “If you and Ser Riddell would be so kind as to move away a few metres, what I have to speak to the King about is for his ears only.”

Wariness deepened along with the frown, but he nodded consent. Gathering the attention of the far guard with a soft code sound and a gesture, they moved a few paces away, near enough to be at hand, but not so close as to eavesdrop.

I put them out of my mind approaching the tent flap, ordering my thoughts. Alistair was a light sleeper, I knew that from firsthand experience, and any stray sound I made would have him awake in an instant, something I couldn’t have as yet. I ducked through the flap and paused, allowing my eyes to adjust to the meager light provided by a shielded lantern in the sleeping partition and holding my breath to listen.

The tent he occupied was new, a larger structure to reflect his status as king, that doubled as the location for his war council. The heavy canvas did a fair job of blocking much of the sound ubiquitous for an army camp on the move, which meant I had a fair chance to hear his breathing. The even cadence to it suggested he was asleep—or at least faking it really well. I shed my cloak and pooled it noiselessly to the floor, down to a short shift that made it easier to move freely.

All that was left to do was to pick my way through to where he slept. Anyone else would likely run into the large table that served as both map table and eating space, trip over the backpack left in the middle of the floor, or crash into the stand containing his armor and arms.

I wasn’t just anyone, though, either. As both trained thief—well, assassin, really—and general of his army, memorizing the layout of his tent was one of the first things I had done, and finding my way through the items deliberately placed to make such an advance difficult was nothing to one used to scouting around darkspawn. I also held the advantage knowing that he wouldn’t be on the cot erected behind the curtained divider, because it had been my suggestion that he sleep in the middle of the tent. He was used to sleeping on the ground, and a less benevolent assassin would most likely expect the King of Ferelden to enjoy his creature comforts, one that would put him tantalizingly close to an attack launched mere decimetres from him through a cloth wall that would do little to hold up to things that stabbed or burned. Barely one day past a contentious crowning in the Landmeet, who knew what Anora’s supporters might do; her father had, after all, hired the Antivan Crows to assassinate us when we were ‘just’ Grey Wardens.

I found him sprawled on his back in his sleeping furs beside the curtain. One hand, his right, was tucked under the pillow, gripping the pommel of a dagger I knew to be hidden there; the other rested by his side. I studied him in the faint illumination from the lantern, the short-cropped blond hair, the squareness of his face, so different from elven men, and a mélange of fear, desire, and anger washed over me as I drank in his familiar features.

I wrapped all three in determination, and let them fuel what I came here to do. Stepping lightly across his body, I gauged how I would need to place mine then dropped. Simultaneously, my left hand reached to clamp on his right wrist to stay the dagger draw I knew would come, my right to cover his mouth, and I positioned my hips and legs to pin, or at least hamper, his ability to bring his left arm to bear or to rise without an effort.

As expected, the moment he felt my touch, he was awake, and I had to bear down with all my strength to ride out his impulse to attack long enough for me to whisper, “Alistair, it’s Lillian, be still.” It was a moment but he did so. His blue eyes locked on me, glaring, and tension continued to thrum though him where we touched, making it truce rather than capitulation. “I will remove my hand from your mouth if you promise me you won’t call out for the guards. Nod if you agree.”

He nodded slowly, once, and I pulled back my right hand, but kept my left firmly on his dagger hand. His eyes darkened as that registered, but he kept his voice down, as promised. “Lillian, what are you doing here?” His eyes widened, and he raked his gaze down to take in my attire. “Like this?” Straddling him as I was, the shift had ridden up to my hips, revealing myself bare as I pinned him under my weight.

Instead of answering with words, I leaned down and brushed his lips with mine. His mouth was hard. I continued, letting the kiss linger softly, until I was rewarded by the feel of him beginning to tremble between my thighs. I pulled back, but only enough so that I could see him, close enough that his breath curled hot and quick across my skin, and mine on his. “This is an exceedingly bad idea,” he said in a low, hoarse voice. “I told you, we have to end it. I love you more than life itself, but I can’t tempt myself like this, I have other responsibilities to think of beyond what I want. This is partially your fault,” he noted, with a hint of bitterness in his tone.

I took the accusation with a stab of deserved pain, but it was just another to the collection I’d had to deal with in the past couple of days, and didn’t let it deter me. “And we will end it, my love,” I whispered, exerting gentle pressure down through my hips. His breath caught, and I shifted in my seat, teasing him. “But I couldn’t bear it, not like that. Not in front of everyone else, without even a proper good-bye.”

“Lillian—”

I cut off his protest with another kiss, this one hot and hungry, letting the demands of my body come to the fore, reacting to and encouraging his. Again, his mouth was hard against mine, but when my tongue came out, licking and catching the soft flesh between my lips, his trembling increased, and his resolution crumbled. His lips softened, parted, and my tongue ran across his teeth, persistent in seeking entrance until they, too, yielded, and his tongue came out to meet mine with a groan of surrender.

There was no art in what we did, no making of anything. It was raw, it was base, it was on the verge of animalistic. He surged up from his bedclothes to a seat, his arms going around my waist and freeing the hem of my shift trapped against his body to slide up my bare back, then back down, cupping my hips and crushing into him. His mouth left mine to travel down the column of my neck to the loose opening, biting and sucking on my collarbone until I knew there would be marks to remind me of this night. With a growl almost sub-audible in its pitch, I wrapped my legs around him, clinging even tighter, and brought my hands under his shirt, putting nails to flesh and raking them down. He gasped in sudden surprise at the pain, pulling away from throat to reclaim my mouth and kissing so savagely, it felt he was trying to devour me.

I heaved myself out of his lap, earning a look of dull surprise, then understanding as I pulled back the covers, shoving it down to his knees. The breeches he’d worn to sleep, he rucked down, exposing himself, then groped upwards to take my face in his hands while I sheathed him. Our breaths exploded from us in grunts, bodies straining one against the other as we sought fulfillment, moving inexorably towards climax.

His fingers glided upwards, finding my ears, and release came in sudden violence, a gasp ripped from me.

There was a discreet scratching at the tent flap, an uncomfortable cough, and Ser Donall’s voice. “Is everything okay, Your Majesty?”

Tears followed in the surfeit of emotion, and his cheeks glistened, too, but his voice sounded merely weary when he replied, “Everything is fine. Return to your post.”

I had the grace to pull the sheets back over him as I rose to my feet, wiping my eyes clear while crossing the rug to where I’d left my cloak, and swirled it into back into place over my shoulders. He watched me as I did, and I met his gaze, seeing in them the scab I and ripped away, bleeding anew, as I was. I went back to him, crouching at his side, and reached out to cup his cheek. With his tainted seed still damp against my aching thighs, I said, “I love you, your Majesty.”

Not always the sharpest sword on the rack, he nonetheless caught the hint in my wording. His hand came up to cover mine. “And I you, Grey Warden.”

“Are we still friends?”

“As long as you’ll have me.”

“Good,” I murmured, leaning forward to kiss his forehead. My eyes were dry as I stood above him. “Now, it’s over.”


End file.
